


Ignis Aeternum

by Mynameisdoubleg



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynameisdoubleg/pseuds/Mynameisdoubleg
Summary: An ancient Necron Phaeron, Space Marine Captain and a tendril of a Tyranid swarm gather in the Ignis Aeternum system for a titanic battle that will shape the future of the galaxy. The galaxy, however, has other ideas, and cares nothing for the plans of the tiny, feeble creatures that inhabit it.
Kudos: 6





	Ignis Aeternum

Welcome to the Ignis Aeternum system. It is a marvel, a wonder, unique even among the trillions of stars in the universe. Enjoy it while it lasts, because in about five minutes it is going to be completely annihilated.  
Let’s begin with the star: A pale giant, over 12 billion years old, nearly as old as the universe itself. Guttering now, flickering, its life almost spent. Its age is not the only remarkable thing about it though. The star is home to a basker, a placid, semi-sentient haze of living plasma, distant cousin of the C’tan who once terrified the galaxy.   
Baskers, despite their mighty power, do not feed on their stars, merely bask in their warmth. It is a living haze, a being of almost pure thought. Compressed, the body of a basker would fit comfortably inside a coliseum. Yet its wispy tendrils encircle the star. Over the eons, none of the species living or passing through the system have ever noticed it. It is nearly as old as the star, and thus one of the oldest living things in creation.  
The second planet from the star also has a proud and unique history. Its rocky mantle is encrusted with the ruins of a Necron dynasty. Down there, in the deep, lie nearly bottomless obsidian crypts, lined with rank upon rank of sarcophagi, etched in runes that were old when the first primates emerged on Terra. Millennia ago, it was a seat of power, both the throne and tomb of mighty rulers and the heart of an Empire that conquered its way to the edges of the galaxy, to the boundaries of the warp and into the shadow realm of death itself.   
Phaeron Senakhtyr is as terrible as he is proud, sheathed in living metal, draped in the faded finery of an emperor, holding in his hand the burning ember of a dead god.  
Today though, he has met his match. Before him stands Captain Timeon, a titan with the countenance of an angel. The blood of a demigod suffuses his veins. Light emanates from his being, catching the gold and silver of his ornate armor, and it glitters like constellations. His is an ancient blade with an ancient name, wrapped in song and saga.  
They speak to one another as equals do.  
Phaeron: The bones of my sister lie here. And my brother’s. My parents before them, my entire line for 1,000 generations. It is not merely my home; it is my soul. For that alone, I would not surrender this world to you, had you thrice the power that you claim.  
Captain: It is not yours to give or deny. We have been chosen by the God-Emperor to rule the galaxy. This is our destiny.  
(He says these things, here, with only a few minutes left in the life of this system.)  
Phaeron: At any other time, I would blast you for such insolence.  
Captain: You are always welcome to try. I too, am the son of many fathers. In me lives a spark of the God-Emperor, and the blood of a Primarch. I have vanquished foes both mortal and immortal, orks, elves, yea, even chaos-spawn of the warp. None have bested me.  
Phaeron: Bah. We may yet test whose lineage runs true, but another day. For now, the swarm is the greater threat. Agreed?  
At the edges of the system, a new challenger has appeared. Trillions of hive creatures, driven for centuries by a single will across the gulf between galaxies, bent on devouring all life. The Tyranids, they are called, and their living ships lumber through the void, bearing down on the planet.  
(They are adept at sensing life, but even they pass over the basker, too diffuse and slow to register on their senses.)  
Captain: Agreed. In this fight, at least, we shall stand as allies. If we fall, this entire sector shall fall. Do not think to hold back and allow us to take the brunt of the battle. We must both fight with every weapon, every guile and stratagem, or both our people shall perish.  
Phaeron: It will be such a battle as has never before been seen. We shall shake the very foundations of the universe. Do not worry for us; Look to yourself, and try to keep pace with my warriors.  
The Captain merely grunts, both acceptance and dismissal at once, a promise that the Phaeron’s words will one day be put to the test.  
(They will not, however. Not now, not ever.)  
It happens.  
There is a flicker of light, like a pinhole punched in the surface of the universe, allowing a god’s light to come pouring through. It is impossibly bright. It is the last thing either sees.  
What happens is this: The basker dies. It is not diseased or wounded or despairing, simply old, unimaginably old.   
It dies and in dying it falls and constricts about its host star. It is more than mere plasma, however, the power of the C’tan slumbers within it, and when it touches the surface of the star, the star’s surface compresses into the core until it explodes.   
It detonates in a hypernova. A disintegrating blast wave roars out, nearly at the speed of light. The blinding flash reaches the planet only a few seconds before the devouring, insatiable sphere of death.  
It incinerates the Phaeron, his scepter and his people in an eyeblink. His millennia-old dynasty vanishes forever. It kills the Captain, and his men, and every human on the planet. His ancient blade becomes ash, a faint smear of particles blown like a leaf before the wind. It blasts the Tyranids from the void, utterly wipes the tendril of its swarm from existence.  
The blast sweeps over them without pause or ceremony, and they are gone.   
The remnant of the star cools, grows cold and becomes a mere lump of iron. In time, even this will collapse in on itself, leaving nothing behind to show the system ever was.


End file.
